


Hands On

by strixus



Category: Spy vs Spy
Genre: Bondage, M/M, PTSD, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-03
Updated: 2010-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strixus/pseuds/strixus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Watching. Black knows that some problems require a more hands on approach. This problem, however, may not be one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Observation Report – Recorded Post Date – xc7∆»A10 – Tape One

White felt the aching lightheadedness of passing oxygen deprivation before he was fully aware of consciousness creeping back into him. Reflex kept his body still and his breathing from changing as his conscious mind slowly came around to accepting that he was, in fact, actually alive. With that realized, even still half-unconscious, White began a mental inventory of his body. His lungs burned in a familiar way, and his ears rang as if he had been concussed; symptoms he recognized as side effects of one of the more common Black Nation gaseous incapacitation agents. He would feel those side effects on and off for weeks after exposure, he knew from experience, along with – yes, there it was – the burning numbness at the base of his neck and down his spine where it pressed against a solid surface behind him. Beyond those symptoms, he didn't notice anything that indicated broken bones or deep trauma, and he counted himself lucky. Then his mind gained some real form of coherence, and memory flooded back. The first words that formed in his mind where a vehement, heartfelt "Oh, fuck".

He remembered being on surveillance in his hidden perch inside the pigeon coop that overlooked Black's apartment. He remembered how thrilled he had been, at first, at finding out, at last, what the Black Nation agent was up to those nights with the curtains drawn. And then he had seen the pictures and the videos, and that sick bastard. His brain stopped, rejecting the memories and refusing to consider any further thought on them. Training took over where those thoughts had been. Blank it out, White, he told himself, it doesn't matter right now; what matters is finding out what sort of situation you're in, and getting out of it with your life intact. And so he began slowly, carefully contracting various muscle groups throughout his body, moving as little as possible, to test his surroundings.

The first thing he found was that he was sitting upright in a high and narrow backed chair. The second was that his hands were bound together as very far down and as far back as they could be pulled without dislocating his shoulders; thus, he was simultaneously pinned against the chair back and was prevented virtually any movement of either arm. His fingertips told him the knot - no knots - were a complicated series tied with at least two ropes, interlaced around both wrists with his arms twisted inward so that the backs of his hands barely touched. There was a strong downward tension on the ropes, pulling his arms even tighter, and two leads led off downwards from the central knots to somewhere he could not locate with just his hands. His feet, bare he realized, were pulled back and up at an unnatural angle such that neither one could touch the ground, and seemed to be anchored to the back legs of the chair. And finally, a length of what felt to be the same type of rope was bound under his arms and across his chest, securing against any leverage he could have gained from the chair.

Two thoughts dawned on White simultaneously: first, that he was tied up in one of the most secure positions possible and it had been done by a pro, and secondly, that he was really rather pissed about losing the boots he had been wearing. They had been his favorite pair of shoes. His knives were gone from their sheath on his back, which was gone as well, and he didn't even have to think to realize his shoulder holster and gun were gone. There was no leverage he could gain against either the chair nor the knots, and no way he could untie them from his current position at the moment, not unless he seriously injured one of his hands in the process. He set the notion aside for later. His positives where that he was still dressed, minus his coat, hat, shoes and socks, and that, as best he could tell, he seemed uninjured beyond the aftereffects of the gas that had been used on him by Black.

At that thought, he gritted his teeth, groaned, and slowly opened his eyes.

* * *

Black had become, in his own way, a master of waiting. He sat on the unused, but well made and perfectly set-dressed, mattress on the opposite side of the room from where he had secured his prisoner. The pistol in his left hand was aimed, loosely, at White, who seemed at least to be still unconscious. He had been fooled by that before, though, the nutter could play possum like no one else. But he sat, waiting, gun in hand, aimed just below White's heart, eyes virtually unblinking.

It had been brutal leveraging White's unconscious body from the booby-trapped coop, down ten flights of stairs in the empty building across the street, then into the elevator and into his apartment. His rival seemed, as usual, to weigh far more than his thin, brittle frame would seem to suggest. Yet now, bound and out like a light, he looked by far more frail and breakable than he ever had in any of the photographs that Black had collected. Pale, silvery blond hair and eyebrows that were matted with sweat and badly ruffled, nearly translucent white skin stretched too thinly over a fine bone structure. Black's mind was a confusion of thoughts as he looked at his unconscious adversary. How many nights had he seen a similar expression on the sleeping face as he had watched it? It seemed too normal, too natural, to be the face of someone like himself who was a trained killer. Yet White was like him, too much like him, and really, he was the only agent in the world on par with him.

He had dressed, of course, before fetching his unconscious foe from his supposed hidden observation nest, and now he sat, dressed in his uniform black shirt and black pants, watching White. The very images was making him aroused again, but this, this was business, not personal. It could never be personal, could it? Or had he already made it personal, he wondered, by letting White see what he had seen? But then what else had it been after that night, he thought, when he had heard those words from White's lips and seen what he had seen? He shook his head, trying to clear it of thoughts. This was the dangerous part, the part where he needed to pay attention. White wasn't likely to take well to being captured, he rarely did, and every ounce of training would kick in as soon as he was conscious. Black wouldn't have much time.

Black had stashed away his black leather bag, packed what few articles of clothing he wanted to take with him. After this, after all, he would be leaving in a hurry, when he was done of course. Yet, he had still not picked up the satphone and called HQ for an extraction, nor for a pick-up team. Black shook his head at himself. This was entirely counter to standard procedure, counter to all his training, and hell, counter to the grain of his instincts. He had White captured, unconscious, and secured. He should have called for a pick-up team to come get the prisoner, an extraction and cleanup team for himself, and been in another city in a day half way around the world with a pat on the back and another commendation in his file. Or, he could have put a bullet in White's head, set it up as an attempted assassination, and sent a corpse off to Control rather than a live prisoner. The outcome would have roughly been the same for him, either way, though there might have been a gold watch or a medal stored somewhere for him as a reward for killing one of White Nation's best. He'd never see it, any more than he'd know which hellhole prison they'd ship White to this time if he went that route.

But this time he needed to do things differently, he realized. He had questions he needed answers to; things he needed to know that weren't state secrets or related to their jobs. And after learning what went on in some of the interrogation rooms of his own nation, he had no interest in handing White over to them before he had his chances. Sometimes, just sometimes, this job needed a more hands on approach.

He had known White had been watching him, of course. And as such, he had rigged the pigeon coop with motion detectors and the gas canisters. It had been easy to set up, even easier to pull off. And even knowing that White was there with his damned little notebook and binoculars, Black had left the curtain open this time where every time before he had closed them. He didn't understand why he had done that, or really, even why he did any of it. Maybe now he could make sense out of it. But how?

He heard White groan and shift against his bonds. So he was finally ready to stop playing possum it seemed. Black remained where he was and watched the bleary, darkly circled eyes open in the pale face opposite him. White made a dry sound, half cough and half choking gag, and then tried to pull his head up to look at Black. His pale blue eyes were unfocused still, but blazed with distrust and anger even before they managed to lock onto first the end of the barrel of the pistol, then onto Black's face.

 

* * *

 

White recognized the pistol pointed at him, or at least, recognized it as one of the types favored by Black for short-range work. It took him a moment longer to focus on the gloved hand holding it, then the face beyond it. His vision blurred as he fought to keep both eyes focused on the same point for a moment, then felt the muscles obey and the face of his rival snapped into sharp detail. Passive and cold, seemingly unconcerned, Black was watching him from across the room, sitting on the unused bed. He was dressed in at least most of his usual uniform: long sleeved black dress shirt open at the collar and black flat fronted pants with a silver buckled belt. A pair of sunglasses was tucked into the shirt pocket almost casually, along with what looked to be a second loaded clip. And of course, the gloves. White's mind convulsed as memories hit him again, images of Black's gloved hands roaming over bare flesh and the horrible pictures and videos; the thought of Black watching him while he had been unconscious made him nearly retch.

He clenched his jaw and bit the inside of his cheek, trying to focus on the pain rather than swirl of images. He had to think, had to focus, else he would miss his means of escape, or worse, end up dead by this sick bastard's filthy hands. But only panic seemed to flood his mind still, and his vision tried to swim again as the pain in his lungs suddenly worsened. Think, damn it, he shouted at himself, if you don't think you'll be dead. Where there should have been fear, cold calmness tried to rise up instead, the product of training and experience. His pulse slowed, his eyes stayed focused, and his breathing calmed.

Good, White thought. Now, what does this sick fuck want and how long do I have before his retrieval team gets here? And where is here? His eyes stayed focused on Black's unnervingly impassive face as he tried to take in detail. Floor lamp behind Black, bed, unused, bare walls; this was the dummy bedroom that Black had set up in the room that should be the bedroom for the floor plan. Of course he didn't sleep here, he slept on that strange rolled up mat in the other room, where White had seen him earlier. At the trigger, the images flooded in again, and White fought for control of his thoughts.

This is bad, very bad. I haven't been this screwed up since after – yeah, after that last time Black Nation got me. Those memories didn't help, nor did their link to his current situation. His mind raced, and Black watched him with impassive, bourbon brown eyes. Fine, White thought, I can't play this cool, because I'm not. I'm too shit scared out of my mind to try to do this right. And this fucker's loving every moment of it, so fine, let's give him a show. Maybe he will slip up.

"You know I won't talk," White blurted. It sounded dumb, and worse, it came out thickly around the dryness in his mouth. But it broke the silence, and maybe it would buy him something. Black only shrugged, the motion not even wavering the seeming careless aim of the muzzle pointed in White's direction. How many times had they both been in this situation with one another or with other agents? Yet White could feel that there was something different this time, both in the way Black held himself and the blank expression on his face. It wasn't helping him to stay calm, or even close to calm.

Black did something then that sent White off the deep end, and White bit his tongue this time, the little jolt of pain from the flesh pressed between top and bottom canines trying to fight the rising fear. He stood, gun still in hand, and began closing the distance to where White was seated and bound. White blinked and swallowed while his brain panicked, and at the same time tried to think how to get the weapon from out of Black's hand and into his own.

 

***

 

Black stood and closed the distance to White in a few short steps putting the muzzle of the pistol now less than a foot from White's face. He could see White's thoughts racing and the occasional panicked jerk against his bonds. White was off his game, badly, which puzzled Black in a distant sort of way. That emotion was visible, let alone obvious, in the way White moved was simply wrong. His appearance was even more of a giveaway.

White's pale skin was even more so than usual, and there were faint hints of perspiration forming at his hairline. His eyes were fighting to stay fixed on Black's face and something was writing the faintest hint of confusion and terror on the angular, slim lines of his rival agent's face in a way that Black had rarely seen. There was more here than White having seen what Black had in his possession, more even than could be explained by a single, sudden shock. He had expected rage, anger, all of the emotions that White usually directed when surprised. Instead, there was real fear on White's face, even below the training that kept emotions off his face, and Black could see it. This was so unlike White, and this close, it made him nervous to see. But it was too late to stop now, even if, in truth, he didn't really even know what he was doing.

With a flick of his right wrist, he had the long, slim knife that he kept under his shirtsleeve in his hand. He had put it and the many others of his hidden weapons, back in place as he had dressed. White knew about this one, had seen him use it many times in the field, so why was there the slight widening of his eyes, the attempt to pull back? But he had no leverage, not in that set of knots, and the movement was little more than a flinch as the blade flicked free of its hidden sheath and circled up into his preferred grip with that hand. It was a showy move, but one he was rather fond of having perfected.

Black leaned forward, pressing the muzzle of the pistol into the side of White's neck as he bent over the chair and down to where his face was at eye level with White's. He brought the knife up to where it was clearly in White's line of sight, and then gave a little jab with his gun hand, getting White's attention on both weapons.

"You struggle, you get hurt. I'd like to avoid having your blood on my carpet, so I'd like to avoid hurting you at the moment. " Words like that shouldn't make White flinch like that, let alone nod. Something was wrong, but Black couldn't put the pieces together in a shape that made sense.

Without taking his eyes off White's face, or changing the angle of his left hand, Black made a swift, upward cut with the blade. Its needle sharp point caught the silk of the white shirt covering the White agent's chest, and the fine, surgical edge on it sliced through the silk like air. Two more cuts and the shirt was cut away completely, its ruined remains pinned between White's body and the chair back by the tension on his arms. White's instincts were good though, at least still there when it came to not moving. He didn't jerk back or even cry out, even when the blade had been a hair's breadth from his skin. But his eyes, bloodshot but still vibrant blue, were so wide their pupils trembled.

Black stepped back, pulling the gun away from White's neck, placing himself outside of a double arm's reach from White's chair. Let him breath, let him calm down, Black thought, what good does he do you dead from fear. That thought nearly made Black laugh; his rival, dead from fear like some civilian. Yet he stood, waiting, and watching.

***

White realized he had forgotten what it was like to be truly afraid. He knew what fear was; he knew it as the edge that kept him fast enough and smart enough to survive. What he had forgotten was the real feeling of being afraid; he had done his best to push down any memories, especially those memories, that invoked that feeling in himself. And now, fighting to keep his breathing regular, looking up into light brown, nearly amber eyes, he knew again what it was to be truly afraid. And the worst part was, every instinct in his body knew he should not be afraid, rather that he should be calm and collected and trying to escape. Instead, he was trembling like a civilian, or worse, a desk agent, and barely able to control his thoughts let alone think about escape. He bit the inside of his cheek again, trying to clear his head with the sharp pain.

He could feel the cold metal of Black's pistol pressed against the side of his neck and the bottom of his jaw. A shot there would, unless he was very lucky, be an instant kill. But he knew Black, at least he had thought until tonight he understood him, and hoped that, as usual, it was more being used for control rather than as a direct threat. With Black as close to him as he was, White's nose was filled with the familiar blend of scents that he associated with his rival. The slick and metallic smells of gun oil, black powder, and well oiled leather, mixing with the harsh, earthy smell of the hand rolled cigarettes which Black compulsively smoked, both overlaying the faint, musky odor of Black's skin. That smell was etched in his mind, and being aware of it had saved his life more than once; worse, however, that smell even penetrated his dreams, and now dredged up more of the memories that he tried so hard to keep repressed.

He could feel Black's eyes looking at his exposed torso, and he hated the feeling. He hated anyone seeing him exposed in any way, something which had gained him a reputation as a difficult patient with the medical staff his country employed. Since the events a few years ago with the other Black nation agent what had been a mild dislike of being exposed before others had bloomed into a full-blown loathing of the experience. Black's eyes on him repulsed him, doubly so knowing that this pervert had been photographing him for years now as he slept. He could feel those eyes on him, crawling over his exposed chest and arms like insects with too many legs. White wanted nothing more than to cover himself and hide from his rival's probing eyes.

"Stop staring at me like that, you sick bastard," White managed to hiss. Black's eyes showed a moment of emotion, gone too quickly for White to identify. White suddenly flinched as Black's gloved fingers traced a line along his left collarbone and shoulder. "What are you doing," he gasped, trying to yank away from the touch, "Get your hands off me!"

Black regarded him with a curious expression. "Simple. I'm checking over my handiwork from all these years. Making sure it's really you. " Black smiled an oily smile, "Only paying back in kind what you have done to me so many times. " White mentally flinched from the accusatory tone in his rival's voice.

Black touched White's skin along his collarbone again, tracing fingers across where White knew there was a long, pale surgical scar. It stretched from his neck down to his upper arm, cleanly healed and barely visible. "This was where you broke your collarbone and dislocated your shoulder trying to get those submarine plans, isn't it?" Black asked.

White nearly snarled. "Yes, and it was your doing too!"

Black only grinned, then used the barrel of his pistol to push White's chin up, revealing two slightly raised crescent moon scars that arced across the pale flesh of his throat. White could barely see Black's frown with his head tilted up, but he could hear the disapproval in his voice as he spoke. "Those aren't my doing. "

White felt his face flush. The agent who had tortured and raped him the last time he had been captured by the Black nation had given him those scars with a long, curved blade that had been held to his throat. White tried to pull his head down to hide the scars from Black's gaze, but his movement was blocked by the press of cold steel against the corner of his jaw. Black touched the soft flesh of White's neck with his free, gloved hand and White wanted to scream. But then Black relaxed the pressure against his jaw, and White looked up into Black's face again, its expression much darker than before.

***

Black frowned. This wasn't getting him anywhere. White was too terrified, even if he was struggling hard not to show it. But White should have no reason to be this terrified of him, Black thought, so surely this had something to do with what had happened to him at the hands of that other Black Nation agent. Yet White was too much of a professional to project such fear into dealing with Black in what should have been for White a normal capture situation. So why was it tied to him so strongly in White's mind?

Black stepped back and sighed, sliding his gun in a hidden holster inside his left pants pocket. White's eyes were watching him, confusion and fear still moving clearly through them. Black sat on the floor in front of the chair to which he had bound White, looking up at him.

"Just tell me White. Just tell me and I'll let you go. " Confusion played over White's face. "Tell me why you call my name in your sleep, White. Tell me why you are so afraid of me?"

Black saw the anger flash in White's eyes. "I'm not going to tell you anything, you fucking pervert. " Black stayed calm, watching, "What the fuck is wrong with you, Black? Have you finally gone crazy? I saw what you …" White's face seethed with revulsion at the thought.

"And who was the one sitting in a pigeon coop looking into my bedroom window, when he wasn't even on assignment? Keeping notes?"

White looked like had been slapped, then his eyes narrowed in fury. "And you were sneaking into my bedroom to take pictures of me while I slept. "

"Would you have rather I been sneaking in to kill you?" White's nostrils flared. "Because I could have. " The rest of that statement went unsaid between them. Of course he hadn't even when he'd been on a mission, he wouldn't do that: it wasn't a part of the rules they played by. Other agents did things like that, but they didn't. Not to each other at least. And, Black thought to himself, I'd never have done what that cruel son of a bitch did, whatever it was, to leave that list of injuries so long they needed two pages to detail them, to you. That's part of the rules too.

White's rage had drained out of him again. His head slumped against his chest, and Black could see that the other agent's eyes were closed. He was still pulling at the restraints with no real purpose or pattern, but the movements were growing slower. White was starting to tire.

"Just tell me why, please?" Black hated himself for the note of need that seemed to slip into that question.

White said something in answer, his voice little more than low growl. Black tilted his head, watching. "I'll never tell you, or anyone else," he said slightly more loudly, "and I'm not – not fucking afraid of you!"

White managed to raise his head at this last and tried to spit at Black, but his mouth must have been far too dry to manage it. Black still recoiled, nearly falling backwards while sitting, converting the motion into jumping to his feet. White's eyes still glared at him, burning with rage again. But there was real fear there still, and worse, a mind numbing terror that Black had seen too many times in others eyes. This wasn't working – there was only one thing for it.

Black stepped forward, putting the momentum of his step into the swing of his right arm. His fist caught White across the jaw with practiced accuracy, aiming for the one spot where, Black knew, if he hit White just right, he would drop unconscious like a stone. The impact left his knuckles bruised inside the glove, but it had the effect he wanted.

 

/End Tape One


	2. Observation Report – Record Post Date – xc7∆»A10 – Tape Two

Black crouched on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, resting and double-checking his work. He had untied White from the chair in the bedroom and bodily moved his unconscious form into the bath and shower of the apartment's moderately sized bathroom. Then, using a grade of marine rope usually used for tying large fish, Black had retied his rival into a moderately secure position using the few anchor points available to him in the bathtub. Arms twisted back and upwards, using a similar tie as he had in the chair, and affixed to the towel bar against the back wall. He used the tension of the ropes and arms to pull White up into a kneeling position while still unconscious. This in turn let him use two modified hobble ties to secure each of the White spy' legs to themselves. The overall result was that White hung limply from the ropes on his arms and rested on his bent knees and lower legs, his back arched slightly. The position still allowed some movement, and gave far more leverage than the chair tie had, but Black doubted White would have the presence of mind to find the few ways he could twist himself to gain purchase.

In the process he had checked to make sure White hadn't managed to hurt himself struggling against the previous set of ropes, both for the sake that he did actually want to avoid hurting the other agent any more than needed, and that any injury could provide a mechanism of escaping conventional knots. Not that Black's knots were anything near conventional, but it never hurt to check. He also had removed the ruins of White's silk shirt, leaving him bare-chested, and cleaned the rather brutal cut Black's punch had left on the side of White's jaw when he had knocked him unconscious. He had no real desire to leave another scar on White's body, especially not on his face, after he had seen the network of scars that crossed White's back and neck. Those made Black grind his teeth with anger at how senselessly brutal they were. They were more evidence of the capture and interrogation at the hands of another Black agent several years ago.

Of course Black had seen the medical files of his rival; of course he knew in as much detail as the doctors had been able to guess or discover as to what had happened to White. But they had been as full of holes as they were full of details: there were no accounts of what had inflicted each injury, no accounts of the order they had been inflicted in. White had, the medical staff noted, been unable at first, then unwilling, to tell them what had been done to him. They had been finding new injuries for weeks after his broken, half dead body had been carted into the best military hospital in the White nation, said the records, all because the patient was unwilling to communicate. The brutality of one of his fellow agents had made Black seethe with rage, and that someone other than himself had done it to his rival had pushed him over the edge. That had been one agent the service could do without.

Black sat, watching the slow, irregular breathing of White. His features were slack, unmoving, unlike how they were in his sleep. But Black still felt that strange, warm feeling he got when he had watched White sleep those many times. There was a restful, peacefulness to the pale skin and closed eyes, the latter edged in fine, silvery lashes that seemed unusually long, the former as smooth as the white tile of the bathroom wall except where small scars marked it. Black felt he could sit and watch forever, perfectly happy to simply see peace on his rival's often emotion twisted face. He still didn't understand it, not really at least; this lean, silver haired and pale skinned man was his greatest, really only, rival in the world, yet all he wanted was to see him sleeping peacefully. Well, that wasn't all he wanted, but he realized that was probably the most he would ever have.

Black sighed and tried to focus his thoughts. He still wasn't really that much closer to the answer he wanted. He realized now at least that somehow White was entangling whatever had happened to him with his feelings towards Black himself. The fear, the inability to focus, the lack of the cool and calm front White put forwards so often when the two were at odds, they all spelled out some underling issue that Black could only guess at. White played by the same rules that Black himself did, and they both respected those rules that had grown out of their constant struggle against one another. So why now was White so terrified since he had seen what Black had let him see?

Black bit at his gloved thumb in thought, then stood. He had rested enough, it was time to wake White and continue to try for an answer. This brooding was counterproductive to his goal. With a sharp twist, he turned the shower on, unleashing a torrent of icily cold water.

***

Burning cold sliced through the blank darkness of unconsciousness. Without thinking White gasped for air, then spluttered as he breathed in icy spray. He tried to jerk away from the cold torrent of water and pain shot through his bad shoulder and his wrists as his own weight pulled on the tendons and bone. He breathed and then coughed more water as the pain caught him by surprise. Consciousness tore through his mind like a knife edged with the pain and cold, and White came to realize his situation. Memory flooded into his mind again and he felt his body sag as much as it could against the ropes.

He opened his eyes and raised his head into the spray of water and saw Black standing beyond the spray of water. It stopped as Black hit the faucet with his hand, leaving White shivering and soaking wet. Droplets of water ran from his hair into his eyes, stinging painfully; the soaked fabric of his pants clung to his legs under the press of the ropes that tied each leg into a painful angle against itself. His brain flashed memories to him of being helpless and soaked in icy water, of being tied across a table or hung from a point on a wall by his arms, and that horrible laughing face too close to his own. Horrible smells crept back into his mind, and for a moment his vision darkened over, the bright light of the white tile room replaced with the shadows and flickering light of a cinderblock and cement one from long ago. Panic surged in him, beyond his control, even above the voice in the back of his mind that tried to tell him this was somewhere different, someone different, that he wasn't back there, he was here, and this was Black, not that other Black nation bastard, in front of him. He fought down the panic only after minutes of internal struggle; the fact greatly diminishing the power he could put behind the rage in his glare at Black.

That glare spoke his defiance, even if his own mind felt as if he were already breaking apart, at least it tried desperately to. Go ahead and get it over with, he thought, go ahead and get whatever twisted game you are playing over with and kill me, you sick fuck. It's not enough to capture me and turn me over to your nation's dogs this time, is it? This time you're going to do it yourself. He shuddered, trying to repress the memories again. But a voice in the back of his mind said: but isn't that what you want, isn't that what those dreams have been about? The thought made him feel sick to his stomach. A memory of the dreams washed over him, where memories he tried to repress danced in his head in twisted forms. Black's gloved hands touching bare skin, the scent of the other agent filling his nose – yet still he was helpless, trapped and being raped, being bent across that cold, steel table, being pushed against those horrible cinderblock walls. But it was never so bad, never so bad as it had been in reality.

White shoved the memories down, trying to kindle his anger at Black to drive out the terror that threatened his mind over and over again. Black wouldn't do to him what the other had done, it wasn't like him; but the yammering, terrified voice in his mind kept telling him otherwise. He took pictures of you in your sleep, idiot, he's got video of you that he gets off to like porn. He's stood next to your as you slept and watched you for who knows how long. He's got your old gun that you shot him with that night, and he … and he… The thought was so repulsive he couldn't think it through. He's going to work out his sick fantasies on me and then kill me. And I can't get myself out of this. The terror drifted back across his mind like a fog.

Black only watched him, impassively, from the opposite end of the bath's length. White knew he was a hopeless mess, and knew, in some deep part of himself, he was going to die today. He'd lost it, totally, and he was too far beyond being able to think well enough to escape from this. Black would win this struggle, would win everything. All because White was caught up in the horrible nightmare in his head that he couldn't shake himself out of. It would have happened eventually, but the shame, the total humiliation that Black seemed to be out to give him just made it all the worse. He won't get out of me what he wants, White told himself, trying to steady his thoughts, he's not going to get that satisfaction. I'll take that horrible shame to the ash pile where they throw what's left of my body once they've incinerated it; at this rate I doubt I'll be lucky enough to get a grave. He bit hard on the inside of his mouth, hard enough that he tasted blood, and wished that it was more than just a distraction to the chaos in his mind.

***

How much of a mess is the inside of his head, really, Black thought as he watched the expressions shift beneath the fine sheen of wetness on his rival's upturned face. Anger, rage, despair, and real, blood-chilling terror flashed across the angular pale face all in a matter of moments. Black realized, in retrospect, that not only was something very deeply wrong with White, but whatever walls the enemy agent had put up against them were crumbling totally as he hung in his bonds, kneeling on the cold ceramic of the bathtub. There shouldn't be any terror in those eyes, there shouldn't be any hesitation; White should have already had himself out of those knots around his wrists and a knife at Black's throat by now. And Black knew that somehow this was all tied into his question, all tied into something in White's mind that had slipped a gear somewhere and called out Black's name as he slept. He clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding slightly where half his lower jaw had been badly set from being broken, realizing in a pained way that, not understanding everything involved, he'd possibly broken White's sanity for good. Well, the sanity that passed for the sanity of a spy, he corrected himself.

He pulled the short ponytail of his dark hair over a shoulder and gave it a hard yank with his right hand, leaning his head back in thought. He realized what a stupid, selfish bastard he had been to try to do this. But he could barely take it any more – he had to know what was going on in White's head. But what he was finding was far worse than anything he had imagined. And now he had to contend with his rival apparently losing his mind in the middle of his bathroom on top of everything else. And it was his fault for being such an idiot.

Think, damn it, he told himself. You've got all the pieces, now what can you do to fix this shit? He caught the look in White's eyes and saw them follow his gloved hand with rapt attention. Well, that was one thing, he realized. He looked straight at White's face, watching it flick between terror and anger, and shucked off both of his gloves, tossing them over his shoulder towards the closed bathroom door behind him. He head one hit the wood with a heavy, soft sound, and then the floor below, the other missing the wall and landing on the tile. White's eyes were wide with confusion and fear, his jaw hanging slightly open with a thin film of blood visible on his teeth. Black flexed his fingers slowly, making sure White saw. No gloves, he said to himself, this isn't business, and this isn't something where I know I'm going to get your blood on my hands. You know what this means, White, it's a single older than us in the business. Please remember it.

White's eyes focused sharply on the hands, tracking them. The terror and anger still vied for his features, but something softened slightly in them, confusion dulling the sharp lines of both emotions. White clearly consciously knew what Black was trying to say, but there was too much emotional chaos still swirling in his head. C'mon White, you're stronger than this, Black thought; you know the sign for when we don't want trouble with each other. Fine, if this isn't enough to get through to you, I have to try something else.

***

A voice in White's mind was yammering for his attention. He couldn't find focus to hear it for a long while at first. First, eating his mind, was the raw terror that had managed to slip its bonds and run wild in his head. He was having trouble keeping straight in his mind where he was because of it. He kept finding himself back in that shadowy, dimly lit room with its bare cinderblock walls  
(his skin cold against their brutally rough surfaces, his own blood slicking the texture in places)  
and hearing the heartless laughing voice in his ears again. White would blink, and he would be back, kneeling in Black's bathtub, his skin soaked from the cold water, chilled to the bone  
(why am I here, oh fuck what is this twisted pervert going to do to me, why was he watching me in my sleep, and oh shit he KNOWS, he KNOWS)  
but still terrified to his core. He could feel himself shivering, hoping it covered the tremors of raw terror that were making his limbs quake against their restraints.

Real fear, he realized, was something he had completely and totally forgotten the taste of. And being so overwhelmed by it was humiliating enough in of itself. He could feel it around his chest like tight steel bands, its hands on his throat waiting to choke the breath out of him, its claws raking the knots of muscle in his back, its dark shadowy form closing over any rational thoughts he was trying to have. And that made him angry beyond reason, even if his fear hadn't already driven it mostly from his mind. Black was deliberately humiliating him with all of this. The image of Black, his hands wrapped around his cock, White's own gun pressed against his flesh as he watched the video of White calling out in his sleep, flashed vividly into White's mind. It was as if Black had wanted him to see it, wanted him to know that he knew, and wanted White to feel the shame of  
(how could he know what I dream, how could he even know, what is he doing to me, why is he doing this, and oh shit why can't I just die now and have it over with)  
White's own dreams. And humiliation brought the rage up in him, boiling and seething and writhing like an eel,  
(I'll kill him, I'll kill him, this is it, I'll kill him before I kill myself and it will all be over, oh yes, all over and I'll win, smug bastard)  
and it tried to overwhelm his fear, but became tangled up in it. His mind was a mess, and he was stuck in it.

But he was a spy, trained to not be afraid, not to feel fear, not to be a mere civilian. And under the fear and terror and anger, under the burgeoning edge of what he was certain was insanity, there was a voice that was trying to grab his thoughts by back of the head and make him pay attention to something his eyes had seen. His eyes saw, even if his mind did not, it was his training; who he was more to his core than anything else. His life and breath and death, see, observe, be aware, pay attention, and be able to so even if there's a bullet parting your hair or a knife at your eye. Finally, beating against his thoughts, the voice got through to him.

He's taken his gloves off, White realized dumbly. That fact bored into his brain, latching on to the last bits of his rational thinking. He's taken off his gloves, he's signaling he's not a threat or on a mission, he's  
(blood on bare pale skin above the gloves, black leather soaked in blood and worse, touching his skin, his own voice choking on sobs somewhere that seemed so far away from him)  
trying to tell me to be calm. Tied up, hanging by his arms, trussed like a cut of lamb, White found this hard to accept, even without the terror and rage hammering against his sanity. White fixed his focus on Black's dark amber eyes,  
(blue eyes, they were blue eyes, inches from his face, that horrible hot breath)  
trying desperately to guess what was going on. The eyes were flat, but not expressionless. There was something strange to them, an expression White had never seen in them before, something different than what should be in the eyes of his rival. A drop of water obscured his vision for a moment, and the expression was gone.

Black, however, was on the move. He stepped into the bowl of the bathtub, bare feet braced well on the slick surface, long toes gripping at the smooth ceramic. White's vision tracked him as he moved, watching as the long limbed agent lowered himself to face level in front of White. His rival folded up on himself, always amazingly graceful despite how gangly he seemed sometimes. Black fabric at the cuffs of his pants darkened as it picked up  
(is all that blood mine? Crimson stains everywhere, and that horrible feeling of knowing there was more he couldn't see and that somehow he was still bleeding)  
the water which pooled on the ceramic floor of the tub as he knelt and looked directly at White.

White was suddenly aware of how much the muscles in his neck and shoulders hurt from straining to look up from his position, the burning sting of the knockout gas still aching in his spine and the chill of his skin only making it worse. His bad shoulder had already gone from searing pain to numbness holding his weight  
(muscles fraying, tearing, screaming, was that his voice screaming?)  
and his knees were protesting their tight bindings and the cold tile. The pains and aches flooded into his awareness, and a shiver of chill and exhaustion shook his body. That strange expression crossed Black's too near face again, his eyes for a moment softening then going blank again. Black raised a hand hesitantly, reaching towards White.

White turned away, trying not to see whatever was coming next.

***

Black winced slightly as White jerked away from his outreached bare hand. Black realized now he'd broken down some deep set of internal barriers in White, unleashed something that was now breaking White's mind into fragments. Half the time it seemed as though White were somewhere else entirely, lost and caught up in his own memories, the other half he was present, wrapped in fear and terror and anger, but still here at least mostly. His teeth ground against one another again, determination growing. He reached out and forcibly turned White's face, hating the look of vacant empty terror in those pale eyes that he saw. White's cheek was as cold as the skin of a corpse in seawater against his bare skin, and he could feel the muscles trembling just beneath its surface. What did that bastard do to you, really, Black wondered, that caused this? And how far down have you had this pushed since then?

Of course Black had seen other agents ruined by fear and madness. It happened in the business. Maybe one in fifty of his nation's agents ended up with what was referred to as the orange sheet in their files; a flag given by the shrinks that the agent had gone unstable enough that he or she needed to be put down. It was a job often given to new agents, going out and hunting down the rogue ones or being brought in to an embassy when one had been captured, then putting a bullet in the back of their neck. Black had done it a few times himself when he had been new. But even by what he had seen then, this was bad. I'm sorry, he thought, I'm sorry I did this for my own selfish reasons. If I weren't so selfish I'd do for you what I did for Lace and Adder all those years ago. Lace even thanked me before I shot her; would you if you could, White? Pity and anger hit him strongly again, and he was sure it showed once more in his eyes. As much as Black had ever wanted to kill his rival, as much as he'd hated him to the core of his being for so long, even after his strange obsession had begun to occupy his mind, Black couldn't bring himself to do it.

White's eyes were flicking rapidly between the hand against his face and Black's own face. His jaw clenched and Black could feel the strong muscles move beneath the skin. White seemed to rapidly shift again, fighting between the present and whatever was inside his head. Then his eyes focused clearly on Black's face with a sudden flare of that unpredictable anger.

"Just do it already," White spat, "Just do whatever you're going to do to me and get it over with. Stop playing with –" White's voice broke sharply, a ragged sound half gasp and half choke biting off whatever else the other agent was going to say. White jerked away from Black's hand, the momentum of his head yanking hard on his stressed shoulders and back. His eyes were wide with terror again, his rapidly expanding and contracting bare chest showing how quick his breathing was, and Black could even see the flutter of his pulse in the pale skin of his throat. He threw himself against his bonds again, and Black was stunned at how much leverage White managed to find even bound like that. Without thinking, he reached out to grab White to keep him from hurting himself. His hands caught White above one shoulder and below the other, steadying him. The hold was one he had been taught early in hand-to-hand combat training; so basic it came to him without thinking.

The sound that left White's throat was half way between a sob and a scream, so sudden and so unexpected that Black jerked himself backwards, falling from the balls of his feet and hitting the protruding metal faucet behind him. He sucked in breath at the sudden pain in his back, righted himself back onto his feet, and stared helplessly at White. The sound had been base, primal, a sound of complete terror with no thought behind it. Now White was thrashing against his bonds again, lips moving soundlessly. For once in his life, Black wished he couldn't read lips.

"Please, no, not again, please no," over and over again, then, "Anything you want to know, I'll tell you, please, stop, don't, not again, I'll tell you anything. " White faded back into the wordless chant begging and pleading again, then more words: "I can't, please, please, help me, Black, please help me, why isn't Black here, please, oh not again please not again, I'll tell you…" And it kept on like that, soundless words tumbling over one another, spilling out of White's lips like a torrent.

Black's knuckles went white as his fists clenched in rage. Three hours bleeding out from a bullet in the gut while Black had cut very small pieces off of him had not been punishment enough for that monster. Blind rage was unlike Black, but right now, it was all he felt.

***

White felt the hands grab him, and his mind vanished into terror and memory.

The agent had grabbed him in that strong, bracing grip and jerked him onto his feet from where he had been laying sprawled across the cold metal of the lone table in the room. The semi-consciousness of blood-loss, lack of food, and exhaustion was ripped way from him by the hard, ringing slap across his face, his vision fire for a moment before his eyes focused on the face of the Black agent in front of him. Despite himself, he whimpered, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere outside of himself. A dark grin twisted the lips of the face, its ice blue eyes alight with whatever horrible thoughts were passing behind them. He could feel the hot breath on his face and smell the rancid male stink of the other, blending in his nose with the smells of old blood, dried semen, vomit, and worse. He closed his eyes, trying to will with what little was left of his will that whatever was about to happen to him would at least not be as bad as what had already happened.

His mind shifted, memory folding in on memory, the touch of hands again and again, firing off different images.

His back was slick with fresh blood. The dog whip had slashed open his skin over and over, fresh wounds mixing with earlier ones that had been reopened. One gloved hand pressed against the back of his neck, holding him pinned face down against the table. His legs were cuffed to its legs, spread wide, his naked back and body exposed completely under the gaze of blue eyes. He felt his stomach lurch, felt the horrible, lumpy texture of swallowed coagulated blood crawling back up his esophagus and fought it back down. Gloved fingers touched him, the leather slick with his blood, the pain as the fingers crossed a cut making his vision white out momentarily, the nausea rising again as the hand slid across his ass cheek and between his legs to cup his balls which were pulled up tight against his body trying to escape damage. The hand squeezed and his vision went white again, the pain between his legs flooding his senses so completely that he could feel nothing else.

His mind swam. Pain filled his world, and memory layered upon memory.

The Black agent had him against the wall again, his face and chest pressed into the rough surface of the cinderblocks, blood lightly slicking his skin and the cement. His hands were cuffed above his head, the chain strung between the metal loops hooked over a bolt high in the wall. His mind seemed to float away from his body, distantly aware of his arms screaming in agony as they held most of his weight, the cold of the chain as his fingers tangled in it, trying to grab any purchase they could, the fire that lanced through his back as lash cuts reopened and bled freely. He could feel the hands of the other agent pushing him against the wall as one felt a dream; the brutal thrusts into his body, the blood trickling down his leg as his already torn insides were assaulted again, the horrible sensation of his own body screaming for release even after so many brutal assaults – they were all as distant to his mind as passing thoughts. And like a song heard on a passing car radio turned too loudly, he could just hear his own voice, chanting its mantra, over and over, begging, pleading, crying, screaming, for this to stop. Harsh, bitter laughter drifted into his ears, the voice of his captor saying "He can't help you now. Beg all you want, I can't wait to tell the world I made the White agent beg for Black like a slut!"

White sunk into darkness, his mind a cacophony of memory once more. Memories flickered, each fighting to come to the fore and overtake him.

A voice, distantly, called to him. He recognized it dimly, but no name would come up out of the swirl of memory and pain. He could feel hands touching him, bare skin on his own, the fingers burning hot against the cold darkness. Hands on his arms, griping tightly; a hand brushing his face; fingers moving through his hair, soothing and calming; hands and arms holding him, as strong as ropes binding him. The voice again, calling to him over and over. He clung to the voice, trying to find whomever it was,  
(why are you calling me that? That's not my name, it was maybe once, but no, not my name – my name? what is my name?)  
trying to pull himself out of the sea of panic and terror that he had drown in. Searing hot fingers touched his face again, cutting sharp lines through the confusion of his senses. Soft words whispered to him, distant in his head  
(the laughter, that horrible sound, his own voice screaming, the husky voice in his ear, the hot breath on his skin, the stink of his flesh, the reek of vomit and old blood)  
almost lost and swallowed in the churning chaos. Hands gripping him tightly, pulling at him, touching him, bare flesh against his own.

A knife of sensation cut through the darkness and swirl of memory then. Lips touched his own, their flesh soft and burning hot against dry, cracked skin as cold as ice. Kissing him, at first hesitantly, then pushing hard against him, trying to devour him it felt. Chaos parted and blissful, soothing nothing overwhelmed his thoughts, lost in that tide of heat that swallowed him down. Strong hands held him, hands that he trusted to not do any more harm to him than they had to, and he let himself be consumed by another kiss.

***

Black's knife had been in his hand and he had been cutting through ropes before he had even thought the action through when White had started to seize. Pale eyes rolled back into his head, his jaw clenched, and every muscle in his body tried to go ridged at once. Black was better trained than to panic, but his haste made his work sloppy. He sawed through the anchor rope with the thin, long blade that had previously so easily cut White's silk shirt away. Once the anchor was cut, he quickly cut through all but the core knot that held White's hands together, tossing the hastily cut rope away as quickly as he could. He did the same with the hobble ties that held each leg bent in on itself, having to slow slightly to keep from cutting White as he suddenly thrashed wildly. He forced the other agent's long legs out of their kneeling position, wishing he had time to get the cold, damp cloth of his pants out of the way, then hastily retired a single knot to bind both ankles together. White thrashed again, his increased mobility with most of the ropes removed sending his head towards the tile of the wall. Had Black not been faster he might have cracked his skull open against the hard white surface.

Flicking his knife back into its sheath against his arm, Black set about lifting White from the tub and onto the bathroom floor. Muscles like ropes stood out along the White spy's arms and chest, and lifting the struggling, thrashing body was almost too much for Black, but he managed at last to lay White on his side, the pale fabric of a lone bathmat providing a bit of protection against the tile as once more the stiff rigidity turned into a wild flail. A sound half way between a sob and a strangled gag escaped from White's throat. Black could see tears streaming freely from the agent's eyes, alternately rolled back in his head and opened widely, seeing something invisible to Black that filled them with unspeakable terror. Black began wrapping what towels he had around White when he was still, trying to both warm him and pad him against injuring himself. All the while he could still see White's lips forming those words, that horrible chant, seemingly mindlessly.

You didn't become as high ranked of an agent as Black was in his nation by being a brainless grunt, nor did you live very long as an agent in general by not learning a thing or two about human psychology, especially its weaknessesy, very quickly. After his experiences hunting orange sheet agents, he had of course studied what he could find written on the things that happened to the mind after trauma and stress took their toll. He recognized painfully now in White the seizure like condition that was often observed in some cases, part overwhelming flashback, part neurological shit-storm, and knew there was little there was he could do to stop its progression now that an episode had started. He swore at himself, at his own selfish, stupid pride, at his own nation, at his own inability to see past the end of his nose sometimes, at how much more he could have made that bastard suffer, at how much unnecessary injury he had possibly done to White over the years, at the whole mess of nation verses nation, of spy verses spy.

It had been, he realized in a deeply guilty way, his fault that any of this had happened. He had been the one who had captured White those years ago, and being younger and slightly more loyal to his nation than to his own desires at the time, he had handed White over for interrogation. There had been no way to know about that other agent, and how rogue he seemed to have gone, no way to know what would happen to White within that distant interrogation cell.

But it had still been his fault. Which had been why the rage that he felt when he got his hands on the next updated version of White's file after the fact had been so terrible. And why that agent had lain dying, slowly bleeding out as the bullet lodged in his intestines shredded his guts further with each breath, with Black sitting next to him using his long, thin knives to slowly cut off each digit of his fingers, to cut chunks from his ears and nose and face, to cut small strips of his skin off and feed them to near by rats who scuttled in the darkness. Given the chance now, Black already had thought of things worse he would have done to the man than that. It hadn't been enough, could never have been enough, for what Black now saw happening to White. And it would never be enough to pay back to White all the horrible things Black had done to him over the years, especially not that one careless moment where he had been a good agent and not done things by his own hand.

Had he been someone other than a trained, field hardened Black nation agent of one of the highest operative rankings there was, he would have given over to helpless despair. He didn't do helplessness very well, though, and so he resolved to do what little he could for White. He dried White as best he could, trying to stop the shivering that was at least he hoped mostly due to the cold chill that had set into his skin. Black went through nearly every towel he had to sponge the water from the soaked trousers and the damp hair, then used his two hand towels to wipe away the combination of water and tears from White's face. He hoisted White into a rough sitting position in the process, trying to make sure the agent did no more damage to the weak shoulder he had already badly strained while being secured. The warmth seemed to drive away the worst of the seizing and shivering, for which Black sighed gratefully, but which left White limply tugging against his bonds, his mind still trapped in whatever it was he was remembering. Black didn't dare untie his opponent's arms, however, for fear White would either manage to land a flailing blow or hurt himself, somehow, if he suddenly lashed out or seized again. But he tried his best to rub the circulation back into the now much more loosely bound arms and legs, hands caressing and working over the pale skin.

Black tried his best to remain focused as he worked, but his mind wandered slightly as he did. White's body was, despite all the scars and damage done to it, still very attractive to him. Black of course admired the physique which had given White an edge so many times, but it was more than that, and it had been for longer than Black had wanted to admit to himself. Of course he had realized the attraction was more than simple admiration when he had finally come to terms with his own behavior towards White those many times he'd found himself watching the other agent sleep. And even now, much to his own shame, Black felt that attraction stirring in his mind. All he had wanted was to know if White, somewhere in his mind, might feel even slightly the same way about him. And in his selfish stupidity he'd opened a locked door behind which horrors untold lurked, unleashing them on White's mind. At least, he thought, I know how he got thoughts of me tangled up in this nightmare. Does he really trust me not to have done something like that to him? Did he really think I'd come and save him from that? The guilt that washed over him made him feel sick.

His arms wrapped around White's shivering shoulders, pulling the trembling body closer to his own. And he spoke, softly at first, trying to call White's mind back for just long enough to let Black explain himself. Somehow, someway, Black realized he had to explain to White how horribly wrong all of this had gone. All he wanted, all he had ever wanted, was to know if White loved him the same way he loved White. He ran his fingers through the still slightly damp silvery hair, the shaggy, short locks clinging to his bare fingers; he wiped away the tears from White's tightly clenched closed eyes, feeling the heat of them on his own skin as his fingers brushed White's face. He spoke again, this time simply calling White's name over and over, before realizing he had slipped once and called White's real name and biting his own lip in embarrassment. Yet White seemed to relax more, his limbs jerking less, and the tears seemed to have stopped. His breathing was more regular, no longer the panicked gasping but now almost the regular breathing of sleep. But his mind was still caught up in memories, Black could see, as for a moment White jerked, then calmed, then flinched at some unknown stimulus, never quite settling completely.

The impulse was acted upon before he'd thought through what he was doing, and Black found himself pressing White's lips into his own, kissing his rival at first hesitantly, and then with all the emotion he had kept locked away for so many years. Let me do to you something he never would have, Black thought, let me be for you what I should have been all this time, let me protect you now from what I should have protected you from back then. Black let the kiss go with great hesitation, his own breathing suddenly shallow and his hands uncomfortably warm. He could feel his own skin flushing, feel his heart racing in his chest, as he scanned White's face, searching for some sign.

White's features had relaxed completely, the last traces of stress and fear gone from them. He seemed to be sleeping, resting at last, rather than unconscious or incoherent. Black breathed a deep sigh of relief, grateful that for at least once he had done more good than harm. He leaned down, letting his lips lightly brush the forehead of the sleeping spy lightly, then straightened and carefully adjusted how White was laying. For now, he wanted nothing more than to sit and watch this peaceful, dreaming face.


	3. Interlude

The man sat alone at a two-seat table in the hotel bar, watching with quiet interest the face of those who passed by or who sat at the surrounding tables. He was younger than many of them, but most of them, at least the majority of them, respected either him or his body of work sufficiently than to give him the sidelong glances that most of the younger attendees at the conference received. He returned to the notes in front of him, reviewing the responses he had received at the most recent presentation he had given. The input would be valuable in reformulating the experiments for the next round of trials, even where it showed an unwillingness to accept his methodology or underlying theoretical foundations.

A second man, slightly older and with perhaps a bit of extra weight due to his slowing metabolism, came up to the table and took the second chair without a word. He could have been the first's older sibling, were it not for some very marked differences between them. Where the younger was dark haired and dark eyed, the older was a dirty blond beginning to show lines of silver, his eyes a pale greenish yellow. The younger still wore a version of what he wore daily to his work, a long white lab coat with black shirt and pants beneath it, his long fingered hands bare of rings and nails cut short, the signs of someone used to gloves rather than bare skin as their normal attire. The older wore a light brown tweet suit, the white shirt the most formal thing in his dress. The younger wore black metal-framed glasses, nearly circular, while the older needed only the gold framed reading glasses that hung at his neck on a chain. But their faces were both sharp angled, their expressions alert and interested, and they nodded to one another when the younger finally looked up to notice the other's presence.

"Ivory," the younger said to the older with a slight smile.

"Char," the older replied to his younger compatriot, his smile bright and open.

Even here in the academic setting, where they knew one another's names as professionals, even worked together as co-authors on more than one paper, they still called one another by their code names. They had come to know each other first and foremost as agents of their respective nations, it had only been after the fact they had realized that they knew one another in the only realm that seemed immune to the petty games of national power. Knowledge and learning flowed still between nations, even if nothing else could. And here, at this conference where both were highly respected in their respective sub-fields of psychology, it was inevitable they would gravitate to one another. After all, they had everything in common.

They were, of course, respected academics. Ivory specialized in research into therapeutic methods designed to help sufferers of stress related disorders, particularly posttraumatic stress in combat veterans. Char did research into the neurochemistry of fear and panic, particularly into the chemical mechanisms involved in the emotions and substances designed to block those responses. Their research had naturally overlapped, coming at the same problems from two different directions as it had.

But first and foremost, they represented the two brightest minds in the field of psychiatry on employ by their respective nations. Ivory was head of the White nation division that handled all psychiatric care and evaluations for his nation's agents, overseeing a team of doctors and support staff unmatched in most of the world in total secrecy. Char, on the other side of the coin, ran the best-funded neurochemistry and psychochemical research lab in the known world, primarily producing the slew of new chemical weapons that his nation used in the less subtitle encounters between nations. He also, by proxy, had control over the small evaluative team that flagged rogue agents for destruction, since most of those evaluations were done using brain scans and blood tests, rather than interviews and counseling sessions, in his part of the world.

Char took a sip from the glass of water next to his notes, and then pushed his glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose. Ivory fiddled absently with a pen which he had pulled from his jacket pocket, then spoke: "Your presentations seem to have gone well. I was rather impressed at the results you are getting with that new compound." Char smiled at the flattery, knowing full well this was all preliminary to what Ivory really wanted to talk about. "Have you considered the therapeutic component that needs to exist along with its administration in human subjects yet?"

Char shook his head, and then brushed a stray strand of his short dark hair from his eyes. "Of course not, Ivory! They haven't even given me the funding to move beyond the monkeys yet!" He gave a sharp, hard snort. "However, they are very impressed with its potential as a weapon, which means the funding will be coming very soon." Ivory nodded, knowing exactly what this hint was supposed to tell him to do. He would file the correct paperwork to have neutralizing agents designed before the Black nation even had it in production in a weaponized form. Char took another sip of his water, and then pulled a file from out from under the one he had been looking at. Ivory's smile shifted from his usual jovial one to one of real academic interest.

"So, you had an opportunity to watch the two recordings I sent you?" Char asked as he flipped the file open, revealing page after page of notes in his tightly packed, blocky handwriting.

"Of course! I set aside three deadlines just to give them my full attention!" Ivory had pulled a pocket computer out of one of his suit pockets and was consulting his neatly typed notes on the videos. "Did your people ever recover those initial videos from your rogue interrogator? Having that material would be…"

Char held up a hand and cut Ivory off. "No, no. We've been completely unable to recover them from the original magnetic media. He did a very good job wiping them. You ask that every time, the answer probably will never change."

"It would have been better if Black had not killed him," Ivory made a face, remembering those photographs and the incident report he had read over when Char had provided them upon request, "But I suppose I should take it in stride. White is perhaps the worst patient under my staff's care in the history of our unit existence. He's been more resource intensive than most of the current cases combined."

Char nodded. "Black's case has been unique for me as well, remember; I have been unused to this sort of approach. It would be, you are most correct, beneficial to know what exactly happened to White during those days he was held by my Nation. Just as it would be very beneficial to me had I been able to get a copy of that notebook which White keeps on my own patient. His skills at detailed observation are legendary."

"Too true. Unfortunately that is data he does not even share with his superiors any longer." Ivory sighted. "Understanding the sorts of traumas that White underwent would be nice, but I believe your suggestions thus far have proven to be very successful. I would not have considered having them be one another's therapy."

"I think in general our normal method is less complex, but Black is too valuable to dispose of in that fashion. So, for the moment I must ask for your opinion on him. And since these cases seem to have entwined themselves so… nicely," Char paused, looking over his glasses at Ivory who grinned like a cat. "It seemed only correct to propose that we arrange the events that lead to the event recorded on those two disks."

"And thus far that seems to be paying off. We are still in agreement then that we should make no report of their activity and encounters beyond the mission setting to either of our superiors?" Char nodded. "And of course, you'll keep destroying data like that on your end, as will I when it comes to White, until we have a breakthrough?"

"Of course. The military dogs who run the show have no sense of understanding of the subtleness of the human mind." Char made a disgusted sound.

"So, have there been any developments since those two recordings?"

Char grinned and reached into his lab coat pocket, pulling out a min-DVD in a small case and laying it on the table between them. "Shall we go to your room or mine?"

"To compare notes?"

"To compare notes. And whatever else may follow."

Ivory scooped up the files from the table along with the mini-DVD and stood, offering them to Char as he moved to follow.


	4. Observation Report – Recorded Post Date – xc7∆»A10 – Tape Three

White awoke to find himself completely disoriented, his head filled with bleary, half remembered thoughts, his eyes feeling raw, and his throat aching. He opened his eyes, wincing at the too bright light and at the painful headache he suddenly realized he had. He was in a strange room, lying on a strange couch, looking up at a strange ceiling. In his disoriented state he barely realized he was bound hand and foot until he tried to move. He swore, and then flinched, realizing he had sworn out loud, the sound of his own voice, a harsh dry sound, too loud in his own ears.

"If you promise not to try to punch my face in, I'll untie you," said a familiar voice.

Memory flooded into White's mind, a disjointed sea of images, half instants, and the horrible, growing realization of the chain of events that had left him laying here on Black's couch, shirtless, tied like a hostage, and with the taste of Black's mouth in his own. Everything from being in the pigeon coop to the horrible disjointed flashback roared through his mind in one go, a freight train well on its way to dragging him back into terror and panic. Black's concerned face suddenly entering his field of vision, looking down at him, made him freeze. A bare hand touched his shoulder.

"Stay with me, White. Stay focused." That calm voice had an edge of concern in it that White could never remember hearing before. He forced his breathing to slow and his muscles to relax. Every inch of his body felt as if he'd been beaten bloody, his bones ached, every joint burned, his head throbbed and he could still feel that skin crawling numbness down his spine from the incapacitation agent Black had used on him. Black's expression went from concern to frowning worry.

"What-" White started to speak but his voice was still a dry, cracked croak. He made a face at the sound. Black was suddenly helping him sit upright, pressing a glass to his lips. White swallowed without thinking, grateful that his lapse in caution didn't cost him anything as he tasted only cold water.

"Take it easy," Black said as he pulled the glass away. "White, you scared the shit out of me today. I-" Black seemed to hesitate, and White jumped in before he could continue.

"What the fuck, Black?" White wished he had the energy to be angry, wished he didn't have all the memories floating inside his head that made him unsure of his own judgment, and worse, didn't have this taste of foreign spy in his mouth. "You kissed me!"

Black's frown made him stop wherever else his words were going to lead. He was totally off balance, seeing his rivals face not filled with either the cool calmness or hate that he had seen on it at every turn for so many years made him unsure of where they stood. What was that expression? White stared.

"White, we need to talk." Black sat beside him on the couch, leaving him propped against one of the cushions near the end, his arms pinned behind him. "We can either do it like this, with you still tied up like that, or I can untie you and we can talk about this like colleagues who take one another seriously." Black spread his fingers, White's eyes following them reflexively. The long, broken curve of Black's left index finger caught White's eye: he remembered doing that to Black, years and years ago, stepping his boot down onto the gloved hand holding the gun and hearing the bones crunch under his heel. He blinked, then, the memory seeming too real.

"Ok, fine, untie me. Let's talk." Black reached and untied the ropes around White's bare ankles, then looked up at White hesitantly.

White kicked Black in the chin. Hard. Sometimes, White thought, You have to take things into your own hands.

/End Observation Report.


End file.
